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and say,

O days and hours, your work is this,

To hold me from my proper place,

A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss :
That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet;

And unto meeting when we ineet, Delight a hundred-fold accrue.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands ;

They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. Bnt in my spirit will I dwell,

And (lream my dream, and hold it true ;

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell.

“'T is true,"I'd not believe them more than thee,
All-noble Marcius. — Let me twine
Mine arms about that body, where-against.
My grained ash an hundred times hath brke,
And scared the moon with splinters! Here 1 clip
The anvil of my sword ; and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did
Contend against thy valor. Know thou first,
I loved the maid I married ; never man
Sighed truer breath ; but that I see thee here,
Thou noble thing ! more dances my rapt heart
Than when I first my wediled mistress saw
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars ! I tell

thee, We have a power on foot; and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,

ALFRED TENNYSON,

SHAKESPEARE.

SONNET XXX.

Or lose mine arm for 't. Thou hast beat me out | Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Where once had stood a happy house, and there
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me, Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar
We have been down together in my sleep, On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,
And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy “Bring me this man,” the caliph cried ; the man
Marcius,

Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that To bind his arms. Welcome, brave cords,' Thou art thence banished, we would muster all

cried he ; From twelve to seventy; and, pouring war

“From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me ; Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,

From wants, from shames, from loveless houseLike a bold flood o'erbear. O, come! go in,

hold fears ; And take our friendly senators by the hands ; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears ; Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,

Restored me, loved me, put me on a par Who am prepared against your territories, With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar ?" Though not for Rome itself.

A thousand welcomes ! Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this And more a friend than e'er an enemy;

The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Yet, Marcius, that was much.

Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, “Let worth grow frenzied if it will ;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.

Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET The richest in the Tartar's diadem,

gem, SILENT THOUGHT.

And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!”

“Gifts !” cried the friend; he took, and holdWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought

High toward the heavens, as though to meet his I summon up remembrance of things past,

star, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar !" Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished sight. THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

“We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words The sad account of fore- bemoanèd moan,

and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short mo

ments; and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and Which I new pay, as if not paid before ;

know nothing of each other." – WASHINGTON IRVING. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,

When calms had stilled the tide ;
A few bright days of summer glee

There found them side by side.
JAFFAR.

And voices of the fair and brave
JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good vizier,

Rose mingling thence in mirth ;
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, And sweetly floated o'er the wave
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust ;

The melodies of earth.
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Ordained that no man living from that day

Cloudless and lovely slept ;
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. While dancing step and festive strain
All Araby and Persia held their breath ;

Each deck in triumph swept.

ing it

LEIGH HUNT.

SHAKESPEARE.

All but the brave Mondeer : he, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
For his great heart wanted a great relief),

And hands were linked, and answering eyes

With kindly meaning shone ;
O, brief and passing sympathies,

Like leaves together blown !

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There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters

meet ; O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my

heart !

THE QUARREL OF FRIENDS.

FROM "CHRISTABEL."

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, 0, no ! it was something more exquisite still.

'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom,

were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment

more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature im

prove, When we see them reflected from looks that we

love.

ALAS! they had been friends in youth : But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline !
Each spoke words of high disdain

And insult to his heart's best brother ;
They parted, — ne'er to meet again !

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining.
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;

A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder

Shall wholly do away, I woen,
The marks of that which once hath been.

Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love

best; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world

should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in

peace.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE ROYAL GUEST.

WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER.

They tell me I am shrewd with other men ;

With thee I'm slow, and difficult of speech. With others I may guide the car of talk :

Thou wing'st it oft to realms beyond my reach

We have been friends together

In sunshine and in shade, Since first beneath the chestnut-tree

In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy heart,

A cloud is on thy brow ;
We have been friends together,

Shall a light word part us now?

If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair,

And choose my newest garment from the shelf; When thoil art hidden, I would clothe my heart

With holiest purpose, as for God himself.

your side ;

For them I while the hours with tale or song, But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted to

Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ; shaw : But how to find a fitting lay for thee,

Sae gi'e me your hand, we are brethren a'. Who hast the barmonies of every time?

The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' deride ; O friend beloved ! I sit apart and dumb, - Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth on

Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine; My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart Sae would I, an' naught else would I value a Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with straw : thine.

Then gi'e me your hand,

we are brethren a'. Thou art to me most like a royal guest, Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman or inan;

Whose travels bring him to some lowly roof, I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can ; Where simple rustics spread their festal fare We are ane in our joys, our affections, an'a':

And, blushing, own it is not good enough. Come, gi'e me your hand, - we are brethren a'. Bethink thee, then, whene'er thou com’st to me, Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can lo'e ;

From high emprise and noble toil to rest, An' mine has done for me what mithers can do ; My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with We are ane high an' laigh, an’ we shouldna be thine ;

twa : But the poor mansion offers thee its best. Sae gi'e me your hand, we are brethren a'.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

We love the same simmer day, sunny and fair ;

Hame! oh, how we love it, an'a' that are there ! TOO LATE I STAYED.

Frae the pure air of heaven the same life we

draw : Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime ! Come, gi'e me your hand, - we are brethren a'.

Unheeded flew the hours : How noiseless falls the foot of Time Frail shakin' auld age will soon come o'er us That only treads on flowers !

baith,

An' creeping alang at his back will be death ; And who, with clear account, remarks Syne into the same mither-yird we will fa': The ebbings of his glass,

Come, gi'e me your hand, we are brethren a'. When all its sands are diamond sparks,

That dazzle as they pass ? 0, who to sober measurement

THE MAHOGANY-TREE.
Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent

CHRISTMAS is here ;
Their plumage to his wings ?

Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we;

Little we fear
WE ARE BRETHREN A'.

Weather without,

Sheltered about A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would be

The mahogany-tree. If men, when they 're here, could make shift to agree,

Once on the boughs An' ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage an' ha',

Birds of rare plume “Come, gi'e me your hand, - we are brethren a'.”

ng, in its bloom;

Night-birds are we; I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight,

Here we carouse, When to 'gree would make ae body cosie an' right,

Singing, like them, When man meets wi' man, 't is the best way ava,

Perched round the stem To say, Gi'e me your hand, — we are breth

Of the jolly old tree. ren a'."

Here let us sport, My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may be fine,

Boys, as we sit, And I maun drink water, while you may drink

Laughter and wit wine ;

Flashing so free.

ROBERT NICOLL.

WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.

Life is but short, When we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew, Happy as this ; Faces we miss, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Gentle and just, Peace to your dust! We sing round the tree. Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate : Let the dog wait; Happy we'll be ! Drink, every one; Pile up the coals ; Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree !

Old wood to burn !--
Ay, bring the hillside beech
From where the owlets meet and screech,

And ravens croak;
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet;
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat,
Dug 'neath the fern ;

The knotted oak,

A fagot too, perhap, Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, Shall light us at our drinking ;

While the oozing sap Shall make sweet music to our thinking.

Drain we the cup.
Friend, art afraid ?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;
Empty it yet ;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree !

Old books to read !-
Ay, bring those nodes of wit,
The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ,

Time-honored tomes !
The same my sire scanned before,
The same my grandsire thumbed o'er,
The same his sire from college bore,
The well-earned meed

of Oxford's domes ;

Old Homer blind,
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ;
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie,
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay !
And Gervase Markham's venerie,

Nor leave behind
The Holye Book by which we live and die.

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite ;
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree !

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Old friends to talk !
Ay, bring those chosen few,
The wise, the courtly, and the true,

So rarely found ;
Him for my wine, him for my stud,
Him for my easel, distich, bud
In mountain walk !

Bring WALTER good :
With soulful FRED ; and learned WILL,
And thee, my alter ego (dearer still

For every mood).

GIVE ME THE OLD.

ROBERT HINCHLEY MESSENGER

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